Part 50: Xander

Philadelphia. Xander’s hometown. Well, sort of. He’d actually grown up in the suburbs of Philly, about forty-five minutes away from the city proper, but now he just said Philly because now he could get away with it. He remembered in high school, when you’d meet new people they’d always say they were from the city at first, but then if you pressed them, eventually they’d admit it was really some other dinky suburb. But if it was closer to the city than your dinky suburb, you kind of had to let it go. No one knew for sure where the city started.

Some kids, though, had been dumb enough to try the “I’m from Philly” nonsense on people from their own school, probably because they didn’t have anyone else to say it to. They were always the ones who called it Philly, too, never Philadelphia, even in their history papers about Ben Franklin. Those kids were the lowest of the low, the untouchables, below even the Social Outcasts like Xander and his crew.

But now, he could say he was from Philadelphia and no one would challenge him. It wasn’t the first step of a negotiation anymore; it was the end of the discussion. And he kind of missed the back-and-forth. It was annoying to have to play both parts, to say, “I’m from Philadelphia, well, really the suburbs of Philly . . .” every single time.

And no one even seemed to remember this was where he was from. No one who was actually part of his life, anyway. There were probably legions of fifteen-year-old girls who knew. But the bassist of his own band had said something about “your hometown” earlier today, when they were on a bus headed to that very town. And Bobby, who was paid to know things about Xander, had greeted him with an enthusiastic “Welcome to Philadelphia!” when they crossed paths in the hallway earlier, as if he’d never been there before because they’d never been there together.

There had also been a handshake, which was strange and unprecedented.

Should he call Kaitlyn? he wondered as he unpacked his things. Unpacking and repacking, a constant cycle. And so was his relationship with Kaitlyn - they would see each other, sleep together once or twice, start calling each other semi-daily for a while, and then somehow it would taper off. He could never quite figure out how it happened, or when it happened, or which of them was to blame. But every time he swore he wouldn’t let it happen again - or if it did happen, he would at least be aware that it was happening - but it always took some external reminder, like the bassist’s amateur psychoanalysis this morning, to remind him of her existence.

One way to avoid repeating the cycle was not to call her. She didn’t pay attention to OBM; she would never know they were in Philadelphia.

Another would be to set some rules. Call every day or not at all. Decide to be “in a relationship” or “friends with benefits.” Give the thing they had a name of some sort.

Or they could do the exact same thing they always did, but this time know that it would be the same thing they always did. Because a crucial part of the cycle was believing that this time things would be different. Which meant that they would be different, which meant . . 

Well, maybe later. No need to call now. If he didn’t call, he could always call later, but there was no taking it back once he did.

The last pocket of Xander’s backpack was the one that held the tour t-shirt and the wooden owl. He laid the wrinkled t-shirt face down on his bed, found today’s date and the name of the venue, then took the owl out of its paper bag. He peered at it: it was ugly, it was scolding him. What had it signified again? Himself or his creative process? His doubt? All things that seemed tremendously unimportant now, now that he was back on the ground.

His phone vibrated a single time: a text message. A medium Xander hardly used and didn’t like, though admitting this made him feel old. This was how his fans communicated with each other, probably. He was probably mentioned in text messages.

It was from Bobby: hey xan, cool if we do a post-show fan sesh q&a 2nite? thx, bobby

Like most of Bobby’s questions, this was a statement. There was no refusing. Meeting fans was as much a Professional Obligation as the show itself was, albeit one that he had to be more mentally present for. He would need a coffee, then. He texted back a quick “ok sure” and then went down to the lobby, hoping this was one of those hotels that offered free coffee. Not that the money mattered; it was the principle. It was nice to think that the coffee was already there, it would be there whether he took some or not, it was just built into the infrastructure of the hotel, it would go on existing even if he died . . . how pleasant that was to think about.

Well, Bobby’s non-question had answered one of his own: he definitely wouldn’t be seeing Kaitlyn tonight.

The lobby did have a coffee machine, but it was one of those ones where you have to put in the little single-serving plastic cup and hit brew, which wasn’t what he had been picturing. He wanted an old, 90’s-style coffee machine, like you saw in some greasy diner at three in the morning, poured by a waitress with fried blonde hair and three kids at home and a half-flirty, half-exasperated rapport with the men at the counter. Something about this coffee machine reminded him of text messages, and he felt like the world was modernizing around him so rapidly. And here he was still buying wooden owls.

He jabbed his finger at the button that would brew his exactly-one-cup of coffee.

Why had Bobby sent him a text message of all things? His hotel room was just down the hall from Xander’s, and he was a talker. Was he afraid to face Xander in a post-Letter world? Ashamed of having the audacity not only to write the story but then try and trick Xander into thinking he had written it himself? Or was he just trying to avoid listening to Xander’s kvetching?

Well, if it was the latter, that was an unreasonable worry. Taking the first sip of his coffee, which was, he had to admit, pretty good, Xander swore he would never again make the mistake of trying to talk to Bobby about his creative issues. The handshake and the “Welcome to Philadelphia” and the text message all confirmed it: they were no longer friends. Friends was no longer even one of the things they were.